The Fan
by behindtintedglass
Summary: "Sherlock..." John pauses.  "Are you equating me with Moriarty?"


"Are you my fan, John?"

He blinks at the non sequitur. "Sorry, what?"

Sherlock is lounging lazily at their sofa, his blue dressing gown falling open on one side to reveal long, pale fingers clasped daintily by his chest. His eyes are closed, however, and John wonders briefly if Sherlock is merely talking in his sleep. It wouldn't have been the first time; god knows the man is physically incapable of shutting up.

"He told me Moriarty was my fan."

At this, John puts down the newspaper he's reading and leans forward, intrigued and just a little bit anxious. "Who?"

"Jefferson Hope."

"The cab driver?"

"The one you killed, yes."

John rolls his eyes good-naturedly. Surely Sherlock can do better than that if he hopes to throw him off. John has killed a number of men in his lifetime — the exact total is not something he wants to find out, let alone think about — and he has slept all the more peacefully because of it. Especially now, knowing that the world will bear witness to the machinations of the brilliant mind of a painfully beautiful man for a little while longer.

"Are you my fan, John?" Sherlock repeats, when no answer seems forthcoming from John; this time, John can detect the slightest tremor in his voice. John's eyebrows furrow in concern. What is that he's hearing? Is it fear? Surely not.

_What does he have to fear from me?_

"Sherlock…" John pauses. "Are you equating me with Moriarty?"

At this, Sherlock snaps his eyes open and glares with a look in his eyes that all too clearly says: _Surely you can't be _that _much of an idiot, so stop being so intentionally dense_. John purses his lips in annoyance but keeps silent and holds Sherlock's gaze. He isn't entirely sure why, but he's certain that what Sherlock is about to tell him is important. Probably more important than anything he has ever said before. So John looks at him and waits.

Whatever Sherlock has been searching in John's eyes, he must have found it, for a few heartbeats later something softens in Sherlock's gaze. "I had wondered," says Sherlock quietly. "What kind of man would sponsor a killer."

"Moriarty," says John definitively. Sherlock has never talked about it before, but he has absolutely no doubt as to whom Sherlock is referring to. _A serial killer's sponsor. Christ. The man's a bloody genius. And he's as sick as fuck._

"And then," says Sherlock softly, and it is here that John's breath catches in his throat when Sherlock gently averts his gaze: "He wondered what kind of man would be a fan of Sherlock Holmes."

John's eyes widen.

_**That… was amazing!**_

_**Quite extraordinary!**_

_**That's brilliant!**_

_**Fantastic!**_

John swallows; his throat feels tight. _Oh Sherlock._

A long moment of silence passes between them. John grinds the heel of his palm against his eyes and takes a deep breath. Nothing he ever says again will be as important as what he will say next.

"He's a fan of your brain, Sherlock. But he's not a fan of your heart."

Sherlock blinks at him, clearly not expecting that reply, and John can't help but relish this rare moment of not only surprising the great detective, but also _confusing_him. "The cabbie?"

"No," says John softly. "Moriarty."

Sherlock stares at him. He opens his mouth, hesitates, and in that suspended moment, John knows the words that almost came out, the automatic response:

_I've been rightly informed that I don't have a heart._

John steadily holds his gaze and smiles a little sadly. _We both know that's not quite true._

There's a flash of something unguarded in his Sherlock's eyes, something vulnerable, something akin to what John had seen when Sebastian so callously declared: _We hated him._ Sherlock is quick to catch himself, however, and he clears his throat. "And you, John?" he asks again. "Are you a fan of both?"

This time, however, he does not bother to hide the fear from his voice.

_No,_thinks John in terrified awe as the certainty hits him like a punch to the gut. _He is not afraid of me._

_Sherlock Holmes is afraid _for _me._

"Moriarty," begins John, before he hesitates, marshals himself, and soldiers on. "Moriarty will never burn your heart out. Not when I will do my damnest to keep it safe."

It is not quite the answer to the question Sherlock is asking. It is the answer to the question Sherlock won't dare ask.

_You've rather shown your hand there, Dr. Watson,_ John thinks ruefully.

Sherlock looks at him, and his cold, hard eyes melts into something grateful, tender, open… _worshipful_. "Take care of yourself, then."

_Will caring about them help save them?_

_Yes, _thinks John fiercely.

"I will," says John, and he smiles. "I will."


End file.
